Nevermore
by Clara Parlato
Summary: "There was no one. Nevermore."


Shiro could hear they whisper. The poison leaving their lips, the fear clouding their eyes, the pity filling their minds. He hated it. He hated it. He wanted them to stop. He was tired of them. He was sick of them. He wanted them to leave. He wanted them to die. He wanted them to die by his own hands.

"Shiro?" Hunk's voice was a blessing in the middle of the whispers.

"I am fine, Hunk."

Shiro could see the pain in his friend's eyes. He could see the pain in his team's eyes. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to hate their eyes. He couldn't help it. He hated the hurt reflected on their eyes. He wanted to run from it. He wanted to rip them out of their sockets. He hated that he felt that way. He hated that he found comfort on the sick fantasy of seeing them, his team, with no eyes.

"Please, go and relax. We'll have a long day tomorrow."

Raising an army from the ground to fight the galra was not an easy task, the tiredness in Allura's voice made it all obvious. The aliens—the allies left the meeting room quickly, shooting glances of empathy towards the paladins, until only the Voltron team was there. They looked horrible. Hunk had lost a lot of weight and looked really pale—was he starving himself?—, Pidge looked ready to break the next deep breath—did she ever had any intention of stopping crying?—, Allura's mind and soul were far away everyday—somewhere no one could ever bring her back from—, Coran had abandoned himself—he looked like grief—and Keith… Keith had pure desire in his eyes—a pure, burning desire to just stop existing.

Shiro was sure he didn't looked any better.

Dismissed the team, he immediately made his way to Lance's room. He had held himself back for long enough for the team. He was tired. He wanted to curl up in a soft bed and cry. He didn't look back, but he knew the others wouldn't follow him. They all had their chance to go to Lance's room. Now it was his turn.

Entering the boy's room, the first thing he noticed was how it wasn't tidy. At all. Good. No one tried to change the room. It would look so wrong. So wrong, so lifeless. So not like Lance. Takashi closed the door, locked it, and threw himself on the bed. He landed on top of a book. Edgar Allan Poe. The man vaguely remembered finding a small amount of Earth books in one of those Earth stores. Oh, Lance had insisted on reading every single one, even the horror ones. Lance wasn't a big fan of horror, but if it made him feel closer to his planet, then he drank the words like a thirsty man in the desert.

Takashi remembered cuddling with the boy in the same bed and listening to him reading the tales aloud. The Raven had been the last thing Lance read to him.

Shiro read the first verse, and then the next, and then the next. If he concentrated enough, he found, he could hear the Cuban's voice reciting the haunting words of a dead poet.

_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, _

_Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, _

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. _

_"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- _

_Only this, and nothing more."_

"Of all the books you could find in this vast universe, you find just a horror one?" Lance teased, "Isn't our life scary enough for you, big cat?"

"Of all the people I could get to read to me in this vast universe, I just had to ask the one who's going to complain every few paragraphs," Shiro chuckled, bringing the brunette closer, "Just read the book, sharpshooter."

"Don't come whining to me when you get nightmares."

"I won't get nightmares as long you're with me."

Shiro sighed contently, burying his nose on the other's short hair. His fingers digging the soft skin that peeked out of the shirt, brushing patterns on a blank canvas. His lips curved in a small happy smile. He was in peace. There was no war, no enemies, no pain, no death. There only was he and his boy. He and his boy.

"_And what if I am the nightmare?"_

Snapping his eyes open, the leader of Voltron stared at the body in his arms. Blood. Red. Warm. Coming out of Lance's mouth. Coming out of the ugly injury in his stomach. So much blood. So warm. So real. Blue eyes, bluest blue, unfocused. Glaring at the nothingness of Death. Body limp, getting colder and colder. Shiro immediately tried to let go of that- that thing, that corpse. However, the long fingers of the other paladin didn't let him go far. Nails dug into Shiro's arm and shoulder, breaking skin, making his blood run down his flesh. The glazed eyes stared fixedly at his own, they did not shine, but they did burn with disdain.

"_Some hero you are, Shirogane. Couldn't even save a simple boy."_

That voice was not his Lance's. It was filled with hatred. Bitterness. The mouth opened more, more blood spouting out. The always so white teeth were bloodied. Tears started to run down the boy's face. Shiro was bleeding together with him.

"_Why didn't you save me, Takashi? Why weren't you there? What kind of hero are you?"_

"I tried! I tried so much, Lance, I tried!"

Sobs wrecking his chest, the Japanese man knew he should feel scared. He knew something wasn't right. Something wasn't right. Lance would never. Shiro did his best. Shiro tried and tried and tried and Lance would be able to recognize it because Lance knows the feeling of trying. Lance would've understood. Lance would've comforted him. Lance would've told him it was not his fault. Takashi should've been terrified. However, his guilty had a louder voice.

"_You can't even save a boy you love! You're no hero, Takashi, you're the one who should be dead!"_

Together with Shiro's guilty, Lance screamed, his voice taking an almost demonic pitch. Lance's fingers were so deep in the flesh of his arm and shoulder, suddenly nails found bones. The older man screamed with the pain. He could feel the other slow but surely tear apart his flesh, warm blood falling like a waterfall. He screamed, he howled, he begged. Please, stop. Please, no more. Please, no more. Please, no more. _No more!_

_But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, _

_Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; _

_Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking _

_Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- _

_What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore _

_Meant in croaking "Nevermore."_

"Takashi? Takashi, wake up!"

With a last terrified scream, Shiro sat up on the bed. He felt long fingers caress his face, looking at his side he could see Lance's—his Lance's—worried expression. The gentle blue eyes—bluest blue—were lively shining. No blood. No tears. No death. Only his boy and himself, in a room, on a bed, with a book. Takashi did not waste time on hugging the other tightly and quickly laying back on the bed.

"Please, just let's stay like this for a bit."

"Okay, don't tell me about your nightmares nor let me finish the poem, then." Shiro could feel Lance's eyes rolling in his skull. "Good night, hero."

_And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting _

_On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; _

_And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, _

_And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; _

_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor _

_Shall be lifted- nevermore!_

Shiro opened his eyes. Edgar Allan Poe's poem stared back.

The bed was empty.

There was no one.

Nevermore.


End file.
